Detachment
by perletwo
Summary: Lisa and Jackson's separate musings during the 45 min.1 hr. between the phone call and landing. Character study, no plot.


title: Detachment  
author: perletwo  
rating: K+  
summary: missing scene filler. I figure about 45 min-1 hour between the phone call and the pen. Some musings by both characters.  
genre: gosh. is character study a genre? Zero plot here.  
disclaimers: Am not Wes Craven. Do not own Red Eye. Am lamer obsessive fangirl. Please do not sue me, unless you're willing to take a settlement in lifetime supply of knitting yarn, which is my main asset. :-(  
A/N: Thanks to Rashida & Meredith for checking the flight-time question for me.

Lisa sat curled into the curved wall of the plane, temple resting against the window frame. She clutched a pillow to her chest in the crook of her right arm, tucking the limb into her body and well away from the man sitting inches away from her.

She was no longer crying. It seemed she had run out of tears, leaving just a hollow ache in her chest. She ached for Keefe, that good man whose life she'd traded for her father's. She ached for his family, the wife and children Keefe had spoken of so proudly. She'd never met them, his kids. Now, likely never would.

Mostly she ached for herself, and in a weird way even for the man sitting beside her. She tried not to look, but snuck a glance from the corner of her eye. He was still, eyelids at half-mast and apparently relaxed, but five hours together on a red eye had taught Lisa something of how to read him. Tension coiled in his forearms, his fingers flexed slightly against the armrest, and a small muscle at the corner of his jaw twitched from time to time.

She was looking at his profile. That told her more about his mood than anything. From the moment she sat down, he'd scarcely taken his eyes off her, trying to impose his will on her with his eyes as he had the bully in the airport line. Now he'd withdrawn the invading force of his personality, and in a strange way she missed the intimacy of it. The shell she'd built up after the rape was so thick only a sledgehammer assault like the one she'd experienced tonight could've made it possible for another human being to make contact with her emotions.

Contact. He hadn't touched her at all since the phone call, and then only a quick fluttery pat, with a "shhh" to quiet her tears. Sympathetic, but not at all intimate.

Dad had treated her like she was made of glass since the rape, and she'd given off intense "stay back" vibes to everyone else. No other person had even attempted to touch her in any meaningful way in two years. Seven hundred thirty days and change without physical contact, and she ached inside.

Then she crossed paths with this man, who looked at her and seemed to really see her. Who saw her as a woman, maybe even a desirable one, instead of an extension of the hotel desk's phone and computer. She'd batted back his flirtatious volleys with just the right timing, had even started to enjoy the process before the nightmare started.

He'd felt free to touch her, not aggressively but like someone who was a toucher by nature. Like he hadn't noticed her shell. He'd caught her arm when she stood; later he draped his forearm over hers on the armrest, laying his hand lightly atop hers. Once he'd stretched his arm across the back of her seat, resting a hand on the back of her head. The head butt certainly qualified as a touch - and then some - and she'd felt him catch her swaying form in a half-hug and settle her gently as she was losing consciousness.

Even the struggle in the bathroom had sent jolts through nerve systems long since shut down, ones that craved the pressure of another body. A hug, a sexual embrace, a body slam - those nerves were too starved for human contact to tell the difference.

Then he'd seen the scar. That damned scar. Every warm sensation she'd felt that night dried up dead when she felt his eyes on that scar. And he called her out on it, just to make sure she couldn't miss it.

That was when the withdrawal began, Lisa thought. That flareup of rage at being lied to. Pushing up her jaw with just the tips of his fingers. And then nothing. Just that one awkward pat and this stiff silence.

Well, of course he'd withdrawn. He saw her for what she was now. Not a desirable woman, just something degraded, disgusting, broken down. Stunted and dead inside. Stupid and weak, to have let it happen. Every bad thought and dark feeling that had ever driven her out of bed for the comfort of scrambled eggs in the small hours broke over her like a wave when he asked about that damn scar. And since she made that call, she'd been drowning in them.

Cravenly, she wanted that contact back so badly she could feel the heat of his body in the next seat. Only her last shred of pride kept her curled up as far from him as she could get. Pride, and the pressure of a Frankenstein pen against her thigh.

It was no good hoping, Lisa thought. It never had been; there would never be any more human warmth for her, she'd known that for two years now. And Jackson had been a false hope from the start anyway, for all his talk about honesty. All those glimpses of kindness or humor or fondness, they were just lies, illusions he created to charm her guard down.

It was time to let go of whatever the hell it was this man had made her feel. Time to work the problem. She would have one chance to get away and only the tiniest window of opportunity to undo the damage she'd done with that phone call. There would be no margin for error; she'd have to strike without hesitation and make every second after that count.

It was time to detach herself, mentally and emotionally, from Jackson Rippner. She had to deaden herself to him, to be able to do what she knew she had to.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Jackson focused all his energy on a breathing exercise he'd learned long ago as a means of building patience. His respiration was deep and even, and to anyone who happened to glance his way, he probably looked relaxed and half-asleep. He'd all but memorized the weave of the fabric covering the headrest of the seat in front of him, carefully ignoring the woman curled up on his right.

In truth he was nowhere near sleep, far too wired with the jumbled emotions of the night and the job. Although it was certainly true that he was tired, more so than he'd been in a very long time. The thought flitted through his mind that at the great age of thirty, he was getting too old for this; he shooed it away.

He hadn't prepared properly for this, he saw that now. He'd thought he'd persuade her easily to do her part, she'd make the call, maybe cry a little. He'd even imagined catching a nap during the rest of the flight; after all, he was no more immune to the strain of flight delays and the red eye than anyone else, just better at hiding it.

Everything he knew about Lisa Reisert added up to a mild, soft personality; he hadn't expected the battle of wills it had become. He certainly hadn't expected to resort to physical violence with her, much less so early. Or twice in one night. Or that she'd trigger the temper he'd frozen over so many years ago, after his parents' deaths.

Fatigue was the only way he could account for the slip he'd made. Letting Lisa know Keefe wasn't traveling alone was criminally stupid. And completely out of left field. In his mind the job had always been about Keefe, singular. Keefe was the player, therefore Keefe was the target. The whole family aspect of the job went against the grain. His role in things was to smooth things along for the big guns, keep things straightforward and simple so his organization could get out with its role in events undetected. Killing innocent bystanders was messy. It brought too much attention, public outcry, hard scrutiny, all the things he usually worked to minimize. He'd put the Keefes-plural out of his mind.

Relief at her finally making the call, that had to be it. All the tension he'd built up applying psychic pressure to Lisa had snapped like an overstretched rubber band then. So many unexpected thoughts had leaked to the surface when it did.

When she handed him the phone and said "make the call," the thought that surfaced was -I don't want you to go.- He knew he should've done it. They should've walked away clean upon landing, strangers on a plane, no apparent connection to outside eyes. That was the plan.

But he'd only just scratched the surface of Lisa Reisert, and he wanted to know more.

The revelation had come in the bathroom, when he'd found that scar. That damned ugly scar that could only have come from a knife-blade. He'd seen enough of them through the years to recognize it. Did she really think she could deny it? The lies were what had set him off, but the truth was, he was as angry at himself as he was at her.

He'd blundered badly in his approach to her, he'd realized it the moment he saw the scar. He'd read Lisa as a dull, bored corporate functionary, deadened by the monotony of her job. He thought she'd be delighted to find herself in a romantic-comedy flirtation, secretly thrilled to be caught up in international intrigue. Despite the lies he knew she was telling, nothing in her manner in the bar had contradicted it. Even after he'd dropped the bomb on her he'd kept up the mood, touching her lightly every now and then, leaning into her space, bantering with just the right mix of menace and sexual attraction to draw her into his web.

Dear God, how could he have been so stupid? All the signs of past trauma were there for anyone to see. He of all people should've spotted it. No wonder she'd lied. Every move he made must have set off alarm bells in her head - she'd thrown up defense after defense, told lie after lie, building up armor over the old sore spots. Those little touches must've felt like a telegraphing of the blows to come.

She was curled up into the corner of her seat now, cringing as far from him as she could get. No surprise there. She probably half-expected him to pounce on her like something from an 80s slasher movie. And why not? Nothing he'd done tonight would lead her to think otherwise.

He'd learned his lesson, hadn't tried to touch her or make conversation since the call. Hadn't looked at her much, though he never let his awareness of her slip. Let her withdraw from him, into the safety of her shell. He'd been a fool to try to draw her out of it, and doubly a fool to lose his long-buried temper when he failed.

The first light of dawn was creeping around the edges of the clouds, making Lisa's profile glow golden. If he squinted, he could just make out the top edge of the Miami skyline. Soon it would all be over, and he'd walk out of her life and back into his own. He wondered how long it would be before he stopped thinking about her.

But that was the way it had to be. He'd done his job, she'd done hers, and there could be no further contact between them. Nothing to connect the organization to a screwup in room assignments at the Lux Atlantic. He couldn't let it matter that he still wanted to know the details about that scar, or why her parents divorced after so many years, or what she would be like if he ever got her to let her guard completely down. What it would be like to kiss her ...

He shook his head slightly. Never happen, now. He'd screwed it all up, crushed any traces of attraction or trust she might ever have felt toward him. In less than two hours Lisa Reisert would be old business, a dead issue. Now was the time to start accepting that.

He had to detach his emotions from her, so he could finish his job. So he could go back to the life he'd worked so hard to build. It had always been enough. It would have to be again.

Still. Everything was in place now, the hard work done. He could afford to treat himself to coffee with her, a little more flirting, the chance for a long last look at her before they became islands unto themselves again.

She'd take no pleasure in it, he knew now, but still. It seemed so little to ask. All things considered.  
-end-


End file.
